


flattery

by Katbelle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Backstory, Crowley has been pining for six thousand years, Episode Tag, Friendship, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Trials, a little bit implied for Crowley anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 02:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19368088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: Hell gave Crowley - or who they thought to be Crowley - a trial. Aziraphale wants to know what Heavenly justice looked like."So," Aziraphale continues, putting away his fork and wiping his mouth with a napkin, "you should tell me about my trial. Just in case, so that I could refer to the best bits the next time Gabriel wants something. What was it like?"It was very divine, Crowley thinks.





	flattery

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a [Tumblr post](https://allofthepretty.tumblr.com/post/185761961271)>

**flattery**

_Shut your stupid mouth... and die already._

Crowley keeps replaying that sentence in his head, over and over. And Gabriel's face - annoyance giving way to a fake smile, all teeth, all flash, cold as ice. Gabriel's lilac eyes - which Crowley remembers twinkling with mirth whenever Lulu and Mika got into one of their squabbles, which he remembers full of pain after the Rebellion - this time full of anger and something else, something that looked too much like hatred for Crowley's liking. He hates that he knows this now, that Gabriel could get so cold and vengeful and vicious. First time in six thousand years that Crowley got to go home and _those_ were the circumstances. His former best friend cheerfully trying to murder his current best friend. And the thing is, Gabriel didn't use to be like that. Before, that is. The Gabriel that Crowley remembers - the Gabriel that used to be Crowley's best friend for countless millennia before Earth, and even longer still before Time was invented - was not cruel. He was stuck-up, he was stiff and superior and sometimes had a disturbing holier-than-thou attitude (a characteristic he shared with Aziraphale, and maybe that's what had drawn Crowley to him initially), but he was never cruel.

A far cry from the Gabriel Crowley had seen a couple of days ago. Crowley is both curious about and scared of what might have happened to turn _his_ Gabriel into _that_.

"I've been thinking," Aziraphale says, and Crowley's stomach drops. He's been dreading this question. "They won't leave us alone for long, will they? I can't speak for Hell, but Heaven won't, once Gabriel gets his bearings he will be back. Always is. And I don't think it'd be a good idea to try swapping again, it was risky and exhausting enough the first time, and might not even work a second."

 _Oh it most certainly won't_ , thinks Crowley, but doesn't say it out loud. It was only a matter of time before Michael figured it out. Their only hope was that Mika might consider potential blackmail material on him and Aziraphale worth more than the fleeting satisfaction of exposing their ruse. Admittedly, the Mika Crowley was basing his opinions on was the Mika from over six millennia ago, but Crowley was confident that, if nothing else, her keen sense for intelligence work was left intact.

"Probably not," Crowley says. He's been expecting this conversation, been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since Aziraphale, laughing heartily, told him how he had asked Mika to miracle him a towel.

And here it was. The Moment. The Moment in which Crowley would have to choose between breaking Aziraphale's trust and breaking his heart. Not that there _was_ much of a choice; as much as Crowley wished to let Aziraphale keep his idealised view of Heaven, it would not keep him alive and Crowley. Couldn't. He just couldn't lose Aziraphale again. Not to mention - he didn't lie to Aziraphale, as a general rule. That would be counterproductive to the Arrangement, and even before that Aziraphale had always welcomed Crowley's truths with a modest amount of understanding. It was refreshing, not having to lie.

(Crowley, if questioned, would maintain that not saying anything was _not_ , in fact, the same as lying. Lying by omission was a Heavenly invention and an idea that Crowley didn't subscribe to.)

"So," Aziraphale continues, putting away his fork and wiping his mouth with a napkin, "you should tell me about my trial. Just in case, so that I could refer to the best bits the next time Gabriel wants something. What was it like?"

It was very divine, Crowley thinks. Very old timey, classic Almighty style. Gabriel went with tradition, and Crowley both was and wasn't surprised; wasn't because an execution like that was always about being a show of power, and _was_ because that was something they promised themselves they'd do away with when Gabriel first became regent. When it was Before.

Aziraphale frowns when Crowley doesn't answer. His plate and his wine glass are empty and Crowley suddenly thinks that it's a pity, that it wouldn't do. Crowley is about to save his life by ruining it, the least Aziraphale could have is another slice of cake to sweeten the blow. Crowley waves at a waiter and orders more cheesecake.

"Is something the matter?" Aziraphale asks and Crowley had to once again wonder if his feelings are that transparent to everyone or if that was simply a special Aziraphale skill, born of thousands of years of fine tuning. He hopes of the latter. He really, really does.

The waiter brings the cake. Aziraphale sends her a blinding smile which falls when he turns back to Crowley. He lets out a nervous laugh. "You can't tell me it was worse than yours," he says and makes it sound like a ridiculous notion.

The thing is, when you think about it, Hell was founded on much better principles than Heaven. Heaven was an absolute monarchy, currently ruled by a regent, with strict hierarchy and virtually no chance of progressing. Heaven was supposed to be perfect and therefore was stagnant. Once a Principality, always a Principality - there was no way to advance, to change anything. You were what you were created as, and Aziraphale was safely in the middle of the ladder while Crowley experienced Fall from the very top.

Hell, on the other hand. Hell was a land of opportunities, as close to a system based on equality and merits as immortal beings could get. Hell was mostly populated with those who Fell after Lulu's Rebellion, and Lucifer rebelled against the establishment. In a mad bid for attention he started what turned into a bloody civil war, but - and even Crowley had to admit that - his initial points were valid. Equality. Freedom. Love. And sure, it all went pear-shaped over time, but how could it not, with the God-appointed King of Hell perpetually depressed, hiding away and writing terrible poetry, and with the constant belief that they all _were_ bad. How could you remain good, or even decent, when it was already decided by others that you weren't?

"No, it wasn't," Crowley answers finally and Aziraphale visibly relaxes. It makes Crowley feel like he's about to plunge a knife straight into his heart and then twist. "Angel... you didn't have a trial."

Aziraphale blinks, confusion apparent and plainly written on his face as comprehension eluded him. Crowley's words refused to register. No trial? What could Crowley possibly mean? Hell have _him_ a trial - a terribly botched one, a staged affair for the sake of appearances, but still. How could Heaven have done less for its faithful soldier?

"I-I don't understand," Aziraphale says and Crowley's heart breaks at the sound of his voice, small and hurt and desolate. "No trial? But that--that would make it an--"

"An execution," Crowley finishes for him because he doesn't think he'd be able to stomach that word falling from Aziraphale's lips. "Yes."

Not the first one carried out in Heaven and not the last one, not when the good of the Kingdom might be at stake. But Aziraphale wouldn't remember that. He's so young, Crowley realises with a start for a hundredth time (he always forgets how much younger Aziraphale is in comparison to him), so young and still so naive. Barely created when Lulu's Rebellion wrecked Heaven, he had no way of knowing what Heaven was like before that. And it has never been like the Good and merciful place Aziraphale liked to pretend it to be.

"But..."

Crowley watches as the little remaining bit of hope - the tiniest one that Aziraphale refused to let go of even after being rebuffed by everyone in Heaven in the days leading to the Apocalypse, even after that posturing at the airbase - dies in Aziraphale's eyes, leaving them sullen and dull. Disappointed, but not angry (it isn't in his nature to get angry). Resigned. One doesn't have to hope or have faith to be an angel; one just had to follow orders.

Crowley feels like such an arsehole. Which should be a necessary quality in his line of work. But he also feels _bad_ about it and that is a less desirable trait.

"Angel." 

Crowley reaches out and takes Aziraphale's hand, without thinking. He wouldn't have done it if he had been thinking, but he wasn't and now it was too late. Aziraphale's eyes snap to Crowley's hand on top of his and Crowley feels that he should let go. He _knows_ that he should, deep in his soul.

But he's a demon so he doesn't.

"Angel," he repeats. His thumb starts rubbing circles on the back of Aziraphale's hand and it's curious, Crowley didn't give his digits permission to move. "It's... alright."

_Shut your stupid mouth... and die already._

It's not alright, but Crowley is aiming to soothe and comfort. He doesn't want Aziraphale to lose his optimistic view. Nothing in Heaven will ever change if there's no one who believes that it could - and should - be better. And if his recent experience in Heaven has taught Crowley anything, it's that Gabriel is no longer that person.

"Heaven is not just Gabriel," Crowley carries on and reasons work himself that is not technically lying, "and you scare him. Simple as that. Heaven has never been particularly kind to those with dissenting opinions. It never knew what to do with those of us who questioned, who wanted to be something else. Those of us who were _more_."

Aziraphale's eyes finally move away from their linked hands and settle on Crowley's face. The faint glimmer of hope in them makes Crowley feel as if a great weight had been lifted off his chest and he can breathe again. The undercurrent of fondness is an added bonus.

"And you," Crowley licks his lips, "are definitely _more_ , angel. More than any of those bureaucrats in Heaven can handle."

The corners of Aziraphale's lips lift in a self-satisfied smirk. _What a bastard_ , Crowley thinks fondly.

"You're saying that it was less about my disobeying and more about Gabriel feeling... threatened?"

"Sure thing. And now that they know you're immune to Hellfire? I _bet_ Gabriel now gets scared stiff at the mere mention of your name. Well," Crowley adds, "gets scared _stiffer_. Do you think it's his suits or is it just Gabriel?"

That makes Aziraphale grin.

"Perhaps I should feel flattered then?"

Crowley squeezes Aziraphale's hand and then lets go of it, leans back in his chair and grins as well. "That's not very angelic of you," he says, "but _please_ , Aziraphale, be my guest."


End file.
